


are you hanging on the edge of your seat

by sabinelagrande



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, Humor, Improbable situations, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is A Troll, Obsessing, Obsessing About Anal Sex, ass grabbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 17:53:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1697147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was never Clint's intention to develop any kind of fixation on Coulson. Totally not his fault that it happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	are you hanging on the edge of your seat

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [Siedzisz na krawędzi swojego siedzenia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11282208) by [Lampira7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lampira7/pseuds/Lampira7)



The first time, it's so strange that his brain can't even process it.

They're in a briefing. Clint's paying attention to the briefing, because Clint always pays attention at briefings. This is especially true when Coulson has called them. This is because Coulson doesn't call briefings much; there's not much need when he's working with Clint and Natasha, because three people makes a conversation, not a briefing. If there's some reason Coulson needs to brief people, then he has a good reason. He doesn't just do it to hear himself talk.

Unfortunately, Coulson apparently called this briefing so they could all listen to someone _else_ , someone who _does_ like to hear himself talk. He's the liaison from the Department of Whatever, talking about the situation in Eastern Buttfuckistan- Clint knows who he is and where they're talking about, could repeat to you exactly what's been said, because Clint is, of course, paying attention.

He just doesn't really care.

Clint is fiddling with a pen, drumming it softly on the folder in front of him. Today's boring briefing game is tap out a song and see who gets earwormed; Clint's been playing "Another One Bites the Dust" for five minutes, and Ruiz already seems to have picked it up. Daniels keeps giving him suspicious looks, and Clint's pretty sure he thinks Clint's using Morse code. Clint gives Daniels a meaningful glance and plays it slower, more evenly, though he's not sure what Daniels thinks he's conveying by repeating O and 5 over and over.

When Daniels finally gives up on him, Clint turns his eyes back to the front of the room again. Lieutenant Colonel What's-His-Face is still going on and on, and Clint is still listening, but he still doesn't care. Coulson's the one who draws his eye. He's pretending he's into this, but he's got this tell; he does this thing where he puts his fingers to his lips, a gesture probably meant to indicate deep thought, but he actually only does it when he's thinking about how much he'd like to kick the other person in the face.

Clint spends a little time just looking at his fingers, because they're an interesting place to look. Coulson has nice hands, with sure, deft fingers. Clint appreciates them, both because they're aesthetically pleasing and because they've saved his life a couple of times; Clint thinks that's an excellent reason to appreciate anything. While Clint's still appreciating his fingers, Coulson starts moving them, tapping them against his lips, and oh, it's about to get serious. 

Coulson takes his hand away from his mouth, putting his palm flat on the table, just beside his folder. He presses down hard with the heel of his hand, just about to lever himself up and cut the guy off. The look on his face goes from well-mannered to determined in half a second; he swipes his tongue absently over his bottom lip, and Clint very clearly thinks, _Mother of god, I want that man to penetrate me._

Clint drops his pen.

His brain shuts down so fast he swears he can hear that record-scratch noise as it abruptly stops. It's not that he doesn't think Coulson's hot, or else Clint wouldn't have been sitting here staring at his fingers for five fucking minutes. Clint totally sees the allure of competence and crisp suits, and even in street clothes Coulson's sort of soccer-dad cute.

Clint guesses. He doesn't have any kids and never played soccer.

And it's not that Clint's never fucked a guy, because come on, that's, like, almost half the planet he'd be categorically giving up his option to fuck, and that's weird and kinda wasteful. But Clint's never even bottomed, and even if he had, whether or not he wanted to get nailed by his handler is _not_ something that he _ever_ expected to get blindsided by in the middle of a briefing.

"Barton," Coulson says warily, and Clint realizes he's still staring at his pen, like it's going to provide the answers. Probably he should be freaking out about whether or not Coulson somehow knows he's had this grand revelation in front of god and everybody, but really, he's just too confused to be anything else.

Clint finally makes himself look up, and everyone is looking back at him; okay _that_ makes it feel a little bit more like everybody knows what he's thinking. Everybody looks concerned and suspicious, checking the room unsubtly enough to let everyone know that they're checking the room subtly. Natasha has her hand at the small of her back, reaching for a knife that Clint knows good and well isn't there, because Natasha knows there's no threat.

This? This is what happens when Hawkeye drops a pen, because Natasha Romanov thinks it's really hilarious and really useful if everyone is in awe of him.

Clint did not ask her for this service.

"Yeah, sorry, I just." Clint coughs. "I got a little distracted. Go ahead."

Coulson looks concerned and confused, even though Clint knows he isn't affected by Natasha's scare tactics. He only looks at Clint briefly, because he seizes the opportunity to graciously push Whoever-He-Is off the podium and end the briefing, only stopping for a mercifully short Q and A.

If Coulson brings it up, Clint'll say he planned it that way.

That'll totally work.

\--

The second time, it's a fleeting distraction.

The mission hasn't taken that long, and it's been relatively easy. In a way, what they're doing now is the hardest part; all they have to do is make it a few blocks on foot so that they can meet Natasha at the extraction point. Unfortunately, it's broad daylight, and the worst thing they could possibly do is run for their lives or creep along looking shady.

So consequently, Coulson is walking confidently, looking perfectly normal, and Clint is trying not to stroll casually, because he's been told his casual stroll looks a whole lot like shady creeping. He and Coulson are having a mundane conversation that is completely fabricated. It's actually kind of a fun game, trying to throw each other the best curveballs they can to make the story harder to believe.

Coulson is trying to explain how he got the balalaika he got Clint's daughter for her high school graduation- because it was Coulson's turn to start the conversation, and if Coulson's gonna make him feel old, then Clint's gonna make him explain balalaikas- when a woman passes by. The glance she gives Coulson is quick, but Clint catches it. When she's behind them, he turns to look just in case, but he already knows she's harmless.

Clint turns back around, and Coulson gives him a look; Clint shakes his head. Coulson needs to know that Clint knows she's not a threat, but Clint's not going to tell him what she was actually thinking. Coulson's pretty hot in the outfit he's got going on, jeans and a button down, his sleeves rolled up, collar open, and she just wanted a taste.

And for a moment Clint thinks about getting one, about Coulson pushing him over something- maybe his desk, maybe Clint's bed, maybe the green Mercedes a little further up the street- and spreading him open, fucking him hard. He thinks about letting the papers or the mattress or the hood muffle his moans, about shutting his eyes and taking it, letting Coulson undo him.

Clint almost misses his cue; Coulson's handled the balalaika with ease, and now he's left Clint on the hook for a business trip to Kuala Lumpur, which isn't fair. Clint stalls with a story about a flight attendant while he tries to figure out what the hell industry he's even in. He puts the part about the Mercedes aside, ignoring it hard.

He doesn't forget it, though.

\--

The third time is an issue.

Natasha took out their captors, but even with her considerable skill, she couldn't solve Clint's problem- namely that he's hanging upside down from the ceiling, bound and gagged- before another wave of goons descended. She's handling the goons, no problem, but reducing the ranks of the League of Super Evil or whoever is not getting Clint any closer to the floor.

That's fine. He'll wait.

Backup bursts in just after Natasha's taken down the last bad guy, because Natasha gets to do cool things like stand amongst her victims and look impressive, while Clint usually spends his moment of triumph sneaking away from his nest. Coulson is with them, naturally, and he comes over to Clint while the rest of the team is securing the room. He looks up at Clint's feet and ankles, studying however they're attached; apparently just because Clint can't talk right now, he doesn't get a hello.

In his annoyance Clint moves or something, and Coulson says, "Easy, Barton," putting his hands on either side of Clint's body to steady him.

Except that the sides Coulson chooses are Clint's front and back, and he puts one hand _right on Clint's ass_ and the other on his hip, fingers splayed out, fingertips perilously close to Clint's dick.

Intellectually, Clint knows that Coulson is not trying to sexually harass him with this gesture; he just grabbed the nearest thing, and his ass is at prime grabbing height, as well as being a good shape for grabbing. The region of Clint's hip that is adjacent to his dick is opposite where Coulson's grabbing his ass, so it's all perfectly harmless, totally an accident. Even if Coulson were going to sexually harass him, which is about as likely as Coulson suddenly revealing he'd actually been Natasha all along, he wouldn't go about it like this, especially not in the middle of an enemy base.

Not a _goddamn bit_ of that knowledge is stopping Clint's outrage. He's not outraged that Coulson is grabbing his ass, because what's a little ass-grabbing between coworkers; he's outraged that this is turning him on, because what the _fuck_. There's no chance Coulson or anybody else could have noticed the way Clint's dick just twitched, even though it was pretty obvious to _Clint_ , but it is still complete bullshit that Clint has to be even remotely aroused by this situation.

Clint keeps it together, though; he makes sure to hold perfectly still, and Coulson releases him, seeming satisfied that Clint won't try to swing away. Coulson gives him a last squeeze of reassurance- only it's on his upper thigh, so it's not very reassuring at all- before leaving him to dangle.

When he's still up there an hour later, he starts to miss the ass grabbing.

\--

The fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh times are totally unacceptable.

It's getting worse, a need that's growing and growing. It sneaks up on him at random times, distracts him when he doesn't need to be distracted, leaves him alone in his bed with his dick in his hand, trying to fight the urge to call out Coulson's name.

This is complete and utter bullshit, and Clint should not have to take it.

\--

The eighth time, Clint hits his limit.

There's nothing going on. They're in a conference room at HQ, waiting for Natasha so they can debrief. Clint is leaning back in his chair, his hands behind his head, his feet kicked up on the table. Coulson's just kinda sitting there, looking at his laptop; his hand is laying on the table beside it, and his fingers are tapping restlessly, one-two, one-two, like a heartbeat.

Clint is kinda in the throes of this fantasy of walking over there and riding Coulson's dick for all he's worth, so he's not really listening to himself when he just up and asks, "Do you wanna fuck?" 

Coulson gives him a bewildered look. "Right now?"

"Not right _now_ ," Clint says, firmly staying in his chair, firmly staying casual, trying to pretend he's not mortified by his own behavior. "When we're somewhere where there's lube and we're not in danger of Nick Fury walking in."

Coulson is still staring at him like he's lost his damn mind, which Clint figures is fair. "Can I ask what brought this on?"

"I just want to fuck you," Clint says, like his heart's not beating out of his chest. He hadn't actually known how important that question was until it was out there in the world, waiting for a yes or no; he hadn't known how it would affect him, the idea that this could be the moment where Coulson stomped on him. "Do I need a good reason?"

"I'd like to think you have one," Coulson says dryly.

Clint sees absolutely no point in telling Coulson what's actually going on here, because that just seems like it would end badly. "You're hot," Clint says, shrugging noncommittally. It's not a lie; it's even part of the truth.

Coulson takes a deep breath, holds it for a moment, then lets it go. "Fuck it, why not."

"Wait, really?" Clint says, swinging his feet down from the table, his chair springing back into its normal position. It's almost certainly the wrong thing to say, but he's too startled to say anything else.

Coulson raises an eyebrow at him, looking extremely unamused. "Unless you weren't serious."

"No, I was definitely serious," Clint says hurriedly. "I just didn't think that would actually work."

"Don't know why you thought it wouldn't," Coulson says, shrugging and going back to his laptop. "You're hot."

Clint has a great response for that, but of course, then Natasha shows up.

Clint can't decide if he's just been cockblocked or saved by the bell.

\--

But the ninth time happens anyway.

Coulson doesn't let Clint forget what he's said, which is good, because Clint doesn't want to go through saying it again. He doesn't hound Clint about it, demand the sex he was promised, please and thank you, but he does bring it up again. It's only just the once, with a "Do you want to come over tomorrow night?" that sounds just a hair too hopeful to be smooth.

"Sure," Clint says, just a shade too quickly to be subtle, but really, Clint was always going to say yes. Clint was about a week from just climbing into Coulson's window and offering his services.

He actually did do that once, but it was a really different set of services.

Weirdly enough, Clint doesn't actually know how this is supposed to go. He's been picked up and taken home before, but all of that is organic, or at least predictable. You come in ready to go, and you pretty much just find a solid surface and do what comes natural. But Coulson is a guy he knows, a guy he works with and respects, and something about just jumping him the minute the door shuts seems kinda rude.

So he picks out his best "I want to look nice for you, but I don't want you to know how much effort I put into it" outfit and goes over to Coulson's. Coulson lets him in, offering him a drink and steering him towards the couch. Either Clint doesn't sit down fast enough or Coulson steps forward just a half-step too far, and they're suddenly very close together, too close for comfort, or at least too close for plausible deniability.

 _Fuck it,_ Clint thinks, hooking an arm around Coulson's waist, pulling him close and kissing him. He doesn't want a drink. He doesn't want to talk. He wants to fuck. That was the whole point, what Clint really needs, what he _has_ to have.

Coulson, thankfully, doesn't seem to have any problem with this at all, kissing him back, and it takes about thirty seconds for it to turn fervent and messy; it takes about another sixty for it to get intense enough that one of them overbalances in his haste to get more, and Clint lands hard on the couch, Coulson tumbling after. Clint's gonna have bruises on the backs of his calves, but who cares, the couch is great, the couch is _so_ great, great things happen on the couch. He twists so that he can lay across it, pushing at Coulson's hip until he gets the hint, stretching out over Clint's body and kissing him. Clint can feel Coulson's cock between them, a hard line against Clint's hip, and a thrill goes through him. That's what he wants, right there, and he's going to get it, he's so close, as long as there's no catastrophe in the next twenty or so minutes, Coulson is really going to fuck him.

It's bizarre how much he wants this, but there's no way he's going to let a little thing like being totally strange stop him. After all, it never has before.

Clint rocks up against him, wanting to feel more, wanting to spur him on, make him as desperate for this as Clint is. It doesn't look like it's gonna be a particularly difficult challenge, not with the way Coulson moans into his mouth when he does it, grinding down against him.

It's awesome, but if it gets any better, Clint is pretty likely to end things here on the couch, which is not in _any_ way what he wants. He breaks away from Coulson's mouth, looking up at him; Coulson is flushed, his lips swollen and a little shiny from kissing, and Clint wonders if getting off on the couch really is such a terrible idea after all.

"Hey," Clint says instead, kissing him again, just a quick one to tide him over. "Do me a favor."

Coulson gives him an amused little smirk. "What do you want?"

"Fuck me," Clint says, and Coulson grins; he kisses Clint again, harder this time, a little bit of teeth.

"C'mon," Coulson says, letting him up. "Let's go to bed."

Clint kinda regrets that they weren't in bed to start with, because it's seriously annoying to have to stop what they're doing and change venues. He doesn't worry about it for long, though, because soon enough they're on the bed, their clothes in a messy heap on the floor. Coulson is on top of him, kissing Clint's neck as he grinds his cock against Clint's, and Clint can't seem to stop running his fingers through Coulson's short hair, holding him close, his other hand on Coulson's ass to cover his bases, making sure there's no way for Coulson to get away.

Clint hears the snap of the lube opening, and Coulson pushes Clint's legs open wider, moving so he's straddling Clint's thigh. Then Coulson's cool, slick fingers are right there, brushing over his hole, and even though it feels good, Clint has to make an effort not to tense up. It's not like he's never been fingered, because for some reason people are increasingly into that, but there's something really, really different about this situation, knowing that Coulson's not going to stop at a few fingers.

Coulson doesn't just shove his hand in or anything though, so Clint relaxes, pulling Coulson's head up to kiss him while Coulson works him open, a little at a time. This is feeling pretty good, Clint could do this. Clint is _going_ to do this, because he's got this weird, visceral need to do it, and that's all that really matters.

But then Coulson does something with his fingers; Clint's not sure what, just that it's the wrong thing. Clint hisses, squirming, and Coulson immediately takes his hand away, resting it on the inside of Clint's thigh.

"Too fast?" Coulson asks, wincing.

Clint realizes now that this isn't going to work out unless he actually comes clean, because Coulson isn't going to push past it if he's hurting Clint. It's going to get more awkward as it goes on, and it's probably better if he just bites the bullet.

"I've just never bottomed before," Clint admits, trying to sound casual about it.

Clint's waiting for Coulson to get pissed off, maybe say something about how Clint's gotten them here under false pretences, how Coulson wouldn't have done it if he'd known; instead, Coulson just kisses his temple and says, "I'll be careful," reaching for more lube.

Clint doesn't know what to say. That's it? How the fuck is that it? How the fuck many dudes' cherries is Coulson popping, that _that's_ his only answer? This isn't a monumental occasion in Clint's life or anything, just a sex act he's never tried before, but Coulson doesn't know that. Maybe Clint is gonna write about this in his diary when he gets home and have meaningful memories of it. Would it kill Coulson to take this a little more seriously?

Coulson is looking at him strangely now, and Clint realizes he's narrowing his eyes at Coulson, even though he thought he was keeping his internal monologue internal. "What's wrong?" Coulson asks, and now he actually looks like he's paying some attention to the gravity of this situation.

Good.

"Sorry, I kinda zoned out for a second," Clint says, bending up and kissing him. "It's fine."

Coulson looks like he doesn't buy it, but he shakes his head. "You are weird and getting weirder, Barton."

"Should have thought about that before you decided to fuck me," Clint tells him.

"Oh, believe me, I did," Coulson assures him. He slides his fingers inside Clint again, and this time it's better, a lot better, slow and easy and smooth. Clint really wants to get fucked, but he could definitely stand more of this, Coulson's fingers spreading him out, pushing deeper inside, and yeah, Clint is starting to understand why people without strange preoccupations are into getting fucked up the ass. Then Coulson's fingertips are pressing against his prostate, and Clint flat out moans, pushing back, trying to get more.

Coulson finally takes his fingers out, and Clint is on the verge of asking him- not begging, mind- not to stop when it clicks over in his brain, what's about to happen. "Are you ready for me?" Coulson asks, pushing himself up on one arm and looking down at Clint, his eyes dark and intense.

When Coulson looks at him like that, Clint is ready for a lot of things.

"Yeah," Clint says, cupping his hand around the back of Coulson's neck and pulling him down to kiss him.

"Get on your side," Coulson says, when Clint lets him go. Clint's vaguely disappointed, because he kinda wanted to see Coulson's face, but Coulson clearly knows way more about what's going on here. It's probably for the best if Clint lets him take the lead on this one. 

Clint turns away from him, getting mentally prepared for this while Coulson snags a condom and rolls it on. Whatever Clint's expecting, it's not for Coulson to put a hand on his thigh, pulling Clint back towards him. "That's not the side I meant," Coulson says.

"I knew that," Clint says, even though they both know he didn't, in an attempt to defuse the situation. "I was just testing you."

"Sure," Coulson says, laying down beside him and pulling Clint closer, hitching Clint's leg up and putting it around his waist. He lines his cock up with Clint's entrance, and Clint knows there's no going back. "Stop me if it hurts," Coulson tells him, though Clint's pretty sure Coulson knows he won't.

"Do it," Clint says, and Coulson starts to press inside, just a little bit, and oh god, it's bigger than Clint thought, this is a bad idea, this is not a good plan, why did he think it was?

"Clint," Coulson says softly. "It works better if you don't seize up and forget to breathe."

Clint lets out a breath; he hadn't actually realized how tense he'd gotten. "Sorry."

"Everything is fine," Coulson says. "If you want me to stop, I will."

"No, I got this," Clint tells him. "Nothing to it."

"You've got your determined face on," Coulson says, lifting an eyebrow at him. "I don't need you wound up and ready for action. I need you relaxed. If you're not going to enjoy this, I'm not going to do it."

"Was that a promise or a threat?" Clint asks.

"Six of one," Coulson says, kissing him. He reaches down and slides his fingers into Clint's ass again; he can't get them in as deep in this position, but it's still good, calms Clint's nerves if nothing else, which is a weird thing to think, but whatever.

It's not until Coulson starts to push into him, unannounced this time, that Clint realizes he's been lulled into a false sense of security. He doesn't care much though, because Coulson is sinking inside him slowly, inch by inch, and Clint doesn't know what he was so worried about, because it feels goddamn amazing. It is a lot bigger than a couple of fingers, but it turns out that's a plus; it feels so good filling him up, spreading him and holding him there, like something was missing before.

Coulson gets his hand between them, stroking Clint's cock as he bottoms out, and Clint breaks away from his mouth.

"Stop," Clint says urgently, grabbing Coulson's hip so he won't do something stupid like pull out.

"What is it?" Coulson says, sounding concerned.

"If you don't get your hand off my dick right now, I'm gonna come," Clint says, through clenched teeth.

Coulson, because Coulson's an asshole, just chuckles, a low sound Clint can feel move through his own body where they're touching. "So I guess you're enjoying yourself now," he says, running his hand over Clint's back instead.

Clint has an urge to tell him to go fuck himself; it takes him a second to convince himself that Coulson's not pointing out a weakness or making fun of him, just being smug over his own sexual prowess. Smug Clint can deal with, because Coulson is smug a lot. The other stuff, well. It just wouldn't end positively for either of them. "For the moment," Clint allows, and Coulson snorts.

"Was that supposed to be some kind of challenge?" Coulson asks.

"When have I ever-" Clint breaks off as Coulson starts to move, rocking slowly in and out of him. "Oh, _fuck_."

Coulson is watching Clint's face as he fucks him; Clint doesn't know what he's looking for, probably signs of pain, evidence that Clint is only grinning and bearing it- which Clint is _so_ not doing. Clint has a pretty clear mental checklist of himself, but being an enthusiastic bottom is not something that he thought he'd have to add to it.

But apparently he does.

"I think you were about to quip at me," Coulson reminds him.

"Yeah, probably," Clint pants, shutting his eyes, unable to take any more of Coulson's scrutiny right now, the way Coulson looks at him like he knows everything, has Clint totally figured out- he totally doesn't, but right now it definitely feels that way. "I'm so not interested anymore."

"Good to know," Coulson says, before kissing him again, his hand on Clint's hip to keep Clint where he wants him. And right now Clint doesn't care where or how Coulson wants him; it's just urgent that Coulson want him in general.

Coulson pushes into him over and over again, Clint's body shaking with it; like this he feels he has no anchor but Coulson, nothing else to hold onto, no choice but to take it. It's way more appealing than he thought it would be, Coulson having that control over him, not that Clint didn't lose control over this situation a really long time ago.

Clint tries to let go, not think about anything past how good it feels, because this is actually really rare for him. Nothing ever really ends like this; when he wants something this bad, craves it this much, it's almost never as good as he thought it would be. The new tech never works as well as it says it does on the box; the edge of disappointment is never really gone.

This is a weird fucking time for everything to go right, but Clint will fucking take it.

Coulson is fucking him faster now, driving into him, and Clint wants more, so much more, but he's not going to make it much longer. "Fuck," he moans, his back arching. "I'm so fucking close."

"Is that what you want?" Coulson says, rolling them so he's on top of Clint, caging him in with his arms and thrusting in deeper. "You wanna come with my cock inside you?"

Clint's not big on talking during sex, but for some reason, those words hit him hard, somewhere down deep. " _God_ yes," he gasps. " _Please_ make me come."

"I kinda like it when you beg me for it," Coulson tells him, and Clint thinks that somehow that Coulson making him ask is both incredibly cruel and incredibly hot.

"Please," Clint says, using his leg to drag Coulson closer. "C'mon, please, want you to give it to me."

"Yeah?" Coulson says, wrapping his hand around Clint's cock and working it quickly. "Are you gonna come for me? Wanna come all over yourself while I fuck you?"

"Oh god," Clint says, arching towards him; it suddenly feels like his skin is on fire, like he's gonna combust before he does anything else. "Oh shit, please, _please,_ fuck-"

"C'mon," Coulson says, biting his ear, moving his hand faster. "Give it up, Clint. You know you want it."

And like that Clint's gone, lost underneath it; he shouts something that's not actually made of words and comes harder than he has in the longest goddamn time. Coulson is still moving inside of him, but it's sharper, ragged; then he's collapsing forward onto Clint, panting hard, his dick pulsing inside Clint's ass.

 _So that's a thing that happened,_ Clint thinks, as he looks dazedly up at the ceiling.

They just lay there for a minute, because that's about all they can do; Clint isn't exactly capable of or willing to do anything but smooth his hand over Coulson's back, try to catch his breath. Besides, it's nice. Everybody should be able to spend all the time they like post-coital. Being post-coital is almost as good as being coital.

Or something.

It's a long time before Coulson finally pulls out and climbs off of him; he slips the condom off, tossing it into the trashcan beside the bed, and then without saying anything he gets up. And Clint is totally cool with it, he's totally fine, if Coulson wants him to go he'll go, whatever, it's no big deal, he's not upset.

Except that all Coulson does is reach down and dig around in the pile of clothes by the bed, looking quizzically at a pair of boxer briefs before he figures out they're Clint's and discards them, finally finding his own and pulling them on.

"What?" Coulson says defensively, as he climbs back into bed, grabbing a wipe from the cannister on the nightstand. "I like to be comfortable."

"Uh huh," Clint says skeptically, hoping it disguises what he's feeling, how pathetically grateful he is that Coulson wasn't actually going to kick him out like that. "So comfortable entails putting your underwear back on the minute you're done with sex?"

Coulson nudges Clint's knee until Clint spreads his legs. "You can be comfortable however you want to be," he says, gently cleaning Clint up and making sure he's okay, which makes Clint's heart twinge in a weird way, that he cares like that, even though Clint figures it's in the category of common courtesy. "I'm going to be comfortable without my dick hanging out."

Coulson tosses the wipe into the trash too, cleaning his hands up with a different one. He looks Clint over for a moment; Clint jumps when Coulson starts wiping the come off his stomach. "Hey," Clint protests, squirming away.

Coulson raises an eyebrow. "Were you keeping it as a trophy?"

"Don't go attacking my stomach with cold, wet things," Clint says. "Some people are ticklish."

"You know you're probably going to regret saying that, right?" Coulson says.

"I realized that the moment I said it," Clint assures him.

"Do you want me to clean you up?" Coulson asks, looking amused.

Clint sighs. "Go ahead. The damage is done." To his credit, Coulson doesn't milk the situation, just cleans Clint off and throws the wipe away. 

And this is where Clint could bolt, this is where Clint has bolted in the past, the moment when they've pretty much discharged their responsibilities to each other. Clint could go home, content with the fact that he's gotten what he wanted, his goal is met. Everything would probably be okay; Coulson would probably be perfectly fine with it, and they could maybe even do it again.

But while Clint's still thinking about that, Coulson lays back down and puts an arm around Clint's waist, pulling him over to cuddle him. And Clint realizes that he's actually not in any better of a position than he was a couple hours ago. Things were getting ridiculous because he kept thinking about Coulson fucking him; now Clint actually knows what that feels like, he's just got a more vivid picture of it in his mind.

Clint shuts his eyes, resting his head on Coulson's chest. The only real solution is to keep getting Coulson to fuck him, or else he'll never get over it.

Damn. What a hardship.


End file.
